


I promised you that everything would be fine

by findingkairos



Series: to you I gift the end of things [2]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Imaginary Friends, Light Angst, Protective Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), Technoblade Gets a Hug (Dream SMP), Technoblade Needs a Hug (Dream SMP), Technoblade Retires, Technoblade-centric (Dream SMP), Winged Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), aetwt, manifestation AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:02:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28544508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos/pseuds/findingkairos
Summary: manifestation:(n.)1. an event, action, or object that clearly shows or embodies something abstract or theoretical;2. a version or incarnation of something or someone;3. an appearance of a ghost or spirit;4. the Blood God.When he's young and still alone, still establishing his reputation as the immortal warrior, Technoblade makes up an imaginary friend.Years later, the blood god is very real and very much a god: one that is prepared to do anything for their first and only friend.
Relationships: Technoblade & Carl the Horse, Technoblade & Philza Minecraft (Dream SMP), Technoblade & the Blood God, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: to you I gift the end of things [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2104326
Comments: 85
Kudos: 1183
Collections: Completed stories I've read





	I promised you that everything would be fine

**Author's Note:**

> ( _a thousand cities burned in your name_ — [do they know I was grown with you?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mn-FFjIbo8))
> 
> Recommended Listening: My Blood by Twenty One Pilots
>
>> Stay with me, no, you don't need to run  
> Stay with me, my blood, you don't need to run  
> 

Everyone thinks they’re an imaginary friend.

“You’re not an imaginary friend,” Techno tells them sternly, “and you’re not _fake_ , either. You’re real.”

I’M REAL, his friend repeats, and though they don’t have a mouth to smile with the angle of their wings and the feather-light weight of their claws on his shoulder is enough to convey the feeling. I’M NOT JUST YOUR IMAGINATION.

“Good.” Techno scuffs his boot in the dirt, eyes the rest of the competition who think that iron armor and shields will save them. He grins. “Ready?”

FOR YOU? ALWAYS. His friend backs off and rises. BLOOD?

“What else?”

* * *

It starts off, as a lot of things do, as a joke.

 _Blood for the blood god_ , his audience cries. It’s a chant they’d picked up from somewhere—some mythology or history book, Techno thinks—and it’s one that they chant for _him_ whenever he competes. They get particularly excited about it whenever he closes in on somebody in the arena, weapon in hand.

Techno doesn’t think much of it at first. But then he wonders: who is the blood god they’re talking about?

There aren’t a lot of historical records, so Techno starts making things up. It’s a figure with a smoky outline, tall, cast in shadow. They wield both sword and axe. They have the great antlers that Techno had seen once in the Overworld and never forgotten, and they have the coldly glinting eyes of soulfire. No, more than one pair of eyes—lots of them.

Wings and antlers and talons and claws. Black and gold and red and blue. _Blood for the blood god_ , and what would be more important to a blood god than fresh blood? But not that of the innocent or children or others who didn’t sign up for violence. Unlike mortals, Techno thinks, a god would have _standards_.

After his tournament, he bandages his bruises and counts his earnings. There’s enough for a week’s worth of food, and that’ll have to be enough.

He works his jaw. There’s no one else here. If there’s any time to risk it, it’s now.

“How was that?” he asks, and imagines—hears—an answer: QUITE IMPRESSIVE.

* * *

He grows old, he grows _up_ , but he never forgets.

Throughout the years, his idea of the blood god grows as he does. People keep chanting for him. He wins wars, conquers worlds, moves on because there is nowhere worth laying down roots for.

He imagines that the blood god follows him, a constant companion in this sentenced loneliness.

“What do you think?”

I LIKE HIM, the blood god says, peering down at Philza Minecraft. Of course the man doesn’t see them, but still, it makes for an impressive sight: a blonde and winged man who doesn’t waver even when faced with the shapeshifting, ashen and antlered warrior that the blood god prefers to be. HE HAS WINGS.

“He does,” Techno says, and meets Philza’s eyes when the man makes an inquiring noise.

“Are you talking to someone?” the man asks, gentle in the way that people are when they think Techno has a few screws loose. Joke’s on them, everyone does. That’s why they’re all here playing war games with a known warrior for whom the audience demands blood.

“Just a friend,” Techno tells Philza, and does not smile when the blood god chuckles, low and soft. “You ready for this?”

“Aw, mate.” Philza hefts his own sword, diamond glinting in the noon sun. “You know I am.”

* * *

They sweep the tournament and add another win to Techno’s name.

 _Blood for the blood god_ , the crowd whispers, _Technoblade never dies_ , and the blood god finishes inhaling the last soul remnants of Techno’s latest kills.

“Do they taste any good?” Techno asks, not for the first time.

And not for the first time the blood god answers: THIS ONE TASTES A LITTLE LIKE THE SEA. SALTY.

“Oh?” Techno checks for nametags, and ah. It’s some guy named xQc. “I think the salt’s from the guy who was, y’know, super rude to Philza earlier.”

Philza’d been taken out halfway through the last round of the competition, after throwing himself in the way of enemy teams trying to ambush Techno. That had been fun, a thoughtful gesture if a little bit unproductive. Techno’s not sure why people think they can sneak up on him even when their ambushes always fail. 

The blood god drifts closer and fixes Techno’s crown for him, slightly askew from the last thrown Ender pearl. Techno smiles back a thank you. I THINK I LIKE HIM.

“What?”

PHILZA MINECRAFT. The blood god slumps over and puts their chin on top of Techno’s head, form molding perfectly around the spikes of his crown. They feel delightfully cold to Techno’s exertion-heated skin. HE TRIED TO HELP YOU.

“At the cost of a life.” Techno remembers dying, even though it’d been years ago. The pain of those kinds of memories don’t fade easily. “That was kinda dumb.”

HE WAS VALIANT. There’s a little rumble, like thunder before the storm. Techno shifts on his feet, feeling the blood god shift with him, and wonders how much longer he’ll have to wait before the tournament organizers manage to teleport him back out of the arena. 

“I thought you didn’t like dumb teammates?”

The blood god—pauses. Hums a little bit, discordant and comfortingly eerie. IT WAS A DELIBERATE AND WELL-EXECUTED SELF-SACRIFICIAL PLAY THAT LET YOU WIN.

“Well, that’s fair.”

Philza Minecraft, right? Techno’s gonna have to remember that name.

* * *

Later, Techno remembers Phil’s name for a different reason: the guy is the only person who doesn’t talk behind his back about Techno’s habit of talking to the blood god when other people can hear him.

It’s a bad habit, sure, but considering the fact that no one ever tries to stay and talk to him, he rather thinks they don’t have a leg to stand on.

But Philza stays. He stays long enough to become Phil as they conquer a server together, and then he becomes a _friend_.

And then one night Phil asks, “Who do you talk to?”

Techno peers up at the man, tries to read his face. Phil’s eyes are clear, he’s loose-limbed and he’s sprawled on his half of the couch like he has no intention of moving. He looks entirely, devastatingly sincere.

Behind him, standing where they cover Techno’s blind spot, the blood god shifts. WILL YOU TELL HIM?

The blood god is Techno’s friend. Moreover, until very recently the blood god has been Techno’s _only_ friend.

Like they’ve read his mind, they add, I THINK YOU SHOULD.

And well. Since it is the blood god’s existence and identity they’re talking about, Techno thinks that weighs more than his own lingering anxiety about and fear of people thinking him ridiculous.

“They’re the blood god,” Techno says slowly, carefully, “and they’re standing behind you right now.”

Phil—doesn’t move. He stills, the same way he does when he freezes with his wings mantled, shoulders slanted, his entire body primed to pounce like a predator, but then just as abruptly as he’d tensed he relaxes. “They are?”

“Yeah.” Techno lets his eyes drift over to where the blood god is, great antlers and many blinking soulfire eyes and all. Phil turns in his seat to follow his line of sight.

After a long moment he asks: “…what do they look like?”

* * *

After that, the blood god grows wings. They’re super soft and surprisingly large, and on top of putting their chin on Techno’s head—which is actually unfair, Techno’s plenty tall himself, taller than _Phil_ , and yet they’re pulling this ridiculousness—they take to draping a wing behind Techno’s back.

It’s just as chill as the rest of them, and it’s a blessing during the summer months when all tournaments are held outside.

“You holdin’ up alright?”

Phil plops down next to him on the bench, stretching out his legs with a sigh. Techno flashes him a quick smile, even as the blood god shifts to accommodate. “Yeah. You?”

The guy chuckles. “All good, mate. So? What do you think?”

“It’s very… colorful.” And it is. The latest popular tournament calls itself a Championship, but it’s less fighting-to-the-death in all its bloody glory and more… well, party games. Save for one or two, but even then those are battle royale free-for-alls in the context of a greater competition, not the point of the entire thing.

Surprisingly, Techno finds himself looking forward to it.

“Colorful’s a good word for it!” Phil slumps down further in his seat, his side brushing against Techno’s, a line of familiar warmth. “Have you talked to the rest of our team yet?”

Techno’s been sitting here since he arrived early, far away from the crowds who gawk at his mask and appearance and signature royal robes. “Nope.”

“Well, we have a bit of time left.” Phil scratches at the back of his neck, nonchalant. “Could go track ‘em down before the competition starts, or meet them during. What do you think?”

WE HAVE WATCHED THEM PRACTICE, the blood god points out. WE HAVE WATCHED THEM FIGHT. BUT YOU KNOW AS WELL AS I DO THAT WATCHING THEM IS NOT THE SAME THING AS ACTUALLY PRACTICING WITH THEM.

They have a good point. And even though Phil is playing up the ‘don’t-really-care-either-way’ attitude, his fingers are tapping a rapid rhythm on his knee. There’s no prize money involved in the Championships today, but there’s still word and reputation to consider.

“Let’s go meet ‘em then,” Techno sighs, and rises to his feet. “Might as well get it over with, right?”

To his mild surprise, Phil doesn’t rise immediately. He pauses to look over Techno with—something in his eyes, but the blood god isn’t bristling and hasn’t straightened to their full height, must not be something aggressive or bad.

Then he smiles, and he rolls up to his feet in his usual winged and predatory way. “Yup. C’mon, I think I saw them near the small water gardens earlier.”

* * *

Techno has fought in many Championships before; some with teams, others in duos, most alone.

But this one, with Phil and Wilbur Soot and Tommy Innit—this one is going to be _memorable_. Five minutes in, and Techno can already tell. It’s instinct, honed and well-trained after years of competition.

Fifty minutes later they’re standing on the winner’s stage, looking out over the crowd.

I LIKE THEM, the blood god says, peering down. Their voice is soft, their many eyes blinking slowly, contented in the manner of cats. Well, the crowd _had_ been crying blood for them—for both of them—and Techno had delivered as he always does.

Techno watches Tommy and Wilbur chat gleefully about something or another out of the corner of his eye, their Championship crowns glinting in their hair. “Oh?”

THEY’RE— a pause. Techno blinks and tilts his head, and by his side Phil watches the same empty space as him. Techno’s not always sure about what exactly the man sees, and the blood god doesn’t answer him whenever he asks.

—NICE.

“Nice?”

Phil makes a soft noise in the back of his throat. “Techno?”

Techno turns his wide-eyed stare to Phil. “The blood god just called Wilbur and Tommy _nice_. Phil, they’re loud idiots! Ones that we beat up multiple times!”

But Phil doesn’t take his side. No, Phil _smiles_ , all soft and fond in a way that Techno doesn’t understand.

“Yeah, they are,” Phil says. “But that was a fun tournament, wasn’t it?”

“It was a good one,” Techno answers, almost on autopilot. “They’re prolly never gonna let us team again, though.”

“That’s okay!” Phil shifts his wings, rustles his feathers, throws one over Techno’s shoulders to the blood god’s grumbling acceptance. “We’re just gonna have to find other things for us to do.”

* * *

Phil’s idea of _other things_ is, apparently, playing even more party games.

Techno would complain except the blood god encourages him to go, in as much that the blood god can.

Their appearance has changed, too. The wings are narrower, tipped in gold, soft like Phil’s; but two of their eyes turn bright blue instead of the more subdued shade of soulfire. There are some spots with dragon scales, others that are small and iridescent. Around their neck is a pale yellow scarf, one that looks like the one he’d seen on Wilbur earlier.

“Are you _copying_ them?” Techno asks, when the similarities become too much.

The blood god blinks slowly. NO.

“Are you sure about that.”

ABSOLUTELY. They curl up around his back, rest a wing across his lap. Techno runs a fingertip through the edge of it, watching the slow smolder of smoke. WHY WOULD I DO THAT?

“I dunno, ‘cause you think it’s _funny_?” If it comes out angrier than his usual—well. Only he and the blood god need to know that.

They press up against his ribs. NO. THAT IS NOT IT.

“Then why?”

They make a deep rumbling noise, smoke escaping from their nostrils—wait, are they _laughing_ at him? TAKE A GUESS.

“Because, uh, you like riling me up even when there is literally nothing here to stab.” Or at least, nothing _yet_. Techno’s pretty sure that Tommy is threatening to start using knives against a Wilbur who’s cackling madly, though that’s only if Phil doesn’t beat the two of them to it. He already knows whose side he’s gonna pick if they end up actually fighting.

SURE, the blood god says, watching him watch the others. LET US GO WITH THAT.

* * *

It’s a good run, but people move on. It’s a fact of life.

Techno waves them off with three more numbers for his communicator’s contact list. Wilbur and Tommy head off to who-knows-where; he’s not actually entirely sure. Something about more worlds to discover, new multiplayer realms to invade. Phil heads back to his own place, though not without leaving a standing invitation for them to visit.

But he and the blood god—they get back to what they do best. And it’s not long before the latest challenge presents itself.

IT WOULD BE INTERESTING, the blood god agrees. They’re peering down at the invitation with him, all graceful calligraphy written on ivory paper.

“Duels ain’t really my thing,” Techno reminds them. “They’re slow and borin’. Why fight one guy when you can fight five or ten at once?” He doesn’t need the prize money offered for this one either nor does he need the breakout exposure. It doesn’t matter who tries to sponsor a one-versus-one duel when he’s Technoblade: his reputation matters more than the money.

THIS ONE, the blood god says, tapping at the invitation with a golden claw, SMELLS LIKE BLOOD.

Techno takes a sniff himself, just to check; but nope. Metaphorical smells it is then. “What do you mean?”

They grin, wings shuffling excitedly. DISRESPECTFUL BRAT THIS ONE MAY BE, BUT HE SHOULD PROVE AN INTERESTING FIGHT. AND IT IS ALWAYS THE DUTY OF THE ELDER TO TAKE THE YOUNGER DOWN A PEG.

“Or three.”

* * *

Techno gears up for the duel slowly, steadily. First the leggings, then the chainmail shirt. He straps himself in, makes himself comfortable. The blood god helps, lacing up his boots while Techno runs final checks over his weapons.

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY.

He looks up. The blood god pats his calf one last time before they rise from their kneel. “Oh?”

TODAY IS A GOOD DAY, the blood god repeats, FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO DIE.

Techno can’t help it—he snickers. “I was gonna say, y’know, we’re not dueling the entire time with weapons that I’m super familiar with.” They hadn’t had shields and axes when he’d been growing up.

BUT THIS ONE IS AN UPSTART. Less amused, more viciously pleased. The blood god leans forward, slumping down from their impressive height, to tuck him under their chin. LET US SHOW HIM WHY TECHNOBLADE NEVER DIES.

* * *

(Everyone knows about Technoblade, and everyone knows about the chant: _blood for the blood god_.

Dream had excitedly shouted it himself during Technoblade’s tournaments. The guy is a beast, his sword arm is devastatingly quick, and his strategic mind is without compare. He also never does one-on-one duels. This one is a rare exception, and it makes Dream preen that he’s the one—him! The new kid on the block!—whose challenge that Technoblade accepted.

He’d known what to expect, going into it. Or at least he had.

Except during the last match, the one that will decide the ultimate outcome of the duel: Dream sees it.

Everyone knows about Technoblade, and everyone knows about the imaginary friend that the guy should have outgrown. He gets some leeway of course, since no one wants to tease the man who has earned his right to wear a crown no matter the server hierarchy, but Dream had been just one of many who’d thought it a little ridiculous.

Frozen in place, heart pounding in his ears, watching the tall and terrible _thing_ that is black and red and bleeding, he no longer thinks so.

Technoblade is _the_ warrior. He takes advantage of Dream’s split-second lapse, and before he knows it there’s an axe cleaving through Dream’s neck and he’s heaving himself awake in the prep room.

After, he asks the spectators what they’d seen. Just him, they say, and just Technoblade. Just a regular match.)

* * *

He gets a call from Wilbur and Tommy afterwards. They want help. There’s a government in the latest multiplayer world they’d ended up at, one that’s kicked them out and put what amounts to a bounty on their heads. They want a revolution. They want the government gone.

NEW SOULS TO EAT, the blood god says.

Techno grins. “New blood to spill.”

And funnily enough, the server world that Wilbur and Tommy call him to is run by the very same guy he beat down in the duel.

“Do you know about Dream?” Tommy asks as they run away from spawn, branches snapping beneath their feet.

Techno thinks about the wide-eyed face beneath the cracked mask. “You could say that.”

* * *

Wilbur and Tommy keep working towards their freedom. Techno plants potatoes and bickers with the blood god over the fastest way to harvest them. Phil messages and sends along recipes that Techno tries over a campfire.

It’s cold in the ravine, and somehow the blood god, who has been cold for as long as Techno can remember, becomes warm.

“What’s up with that?” Techno asks, genuinely concerned. “Are you sick or something? Shoot, is it something to do with the server?” He’s heard the rumors, and he wouldn’t put it past the person who’d blown up Wilbur and Tommy’s home to make a point to have somehow warped the world to make it even more hazardous.

NOTHING LIKE THAT, the blood god replies. They put their chin on his head again, a warm line of heat down his back, and don’t elaborate.

“So you can just. Do things like this?”

YES.

“ _Bruh_ ,” Techno says under his breath, but he’s smiling.

He gets to know the server a little bit. This is new territory; usually Techno moves from one competition to the next, whether that’s war games or minigames. It’s a different experience, to work on making a stone ravine habitable and build up something instead of simply passing through.

He catches horses and goes bedmining and sometimes pulls Tommy out of the scuffles that he gets himself into, as brash and reckless as Techno remembers him being during the Championship. Throughout it all the blood god tags along at his heels, offering snide commentary that only he can hear.

He answers back when he can. People look at him weirdly, but that’s nothing new.

The blood god raises their head one day from where they’re kneeling and helping Techno count potatoes. Even bent over, they’re still tall enough for their antlers to carve the ceiling, leaving deep furrows behind like the stone had been wet mud.

THE FESTIVAL IS TOMORROW, the blood god says.

Techno shuts the last food storage chest. “Yeah.”

A pause. They’re thinking, and Techno double-checks his armor and runs his fingers over the enchantments on his weapons. It’s been a while since the last true conflict.

WHAT COLORS ARE YOU DYEING YOUR FIREWORKS?

Techno is only here for two reasons, and their names are Wilbur and Tommy. “Blue, red, and white.”

The blood god dips their head. ADD A BIT OF BLAZE POWDER. FOR A LITTLE EXTRA SOMETHING.

* * *

The Festival is confusing, a lot of people that Techno’s never seen before, all gathered in one place. There’s people and food and games, and a guy with fox ears tries to drown him in a dunk tank. Unfortunately for him, Techno is very familiar with all the ways to kill somebody, and he’s doubly made sure that he can’t be killed in those ways.

But the games and pre-show only last for so long. Soon enough, the President of this nation—the very President who’d sent Techno an invitation, like he doesn’t know what a provocation looks like—has called for an assembly and placed his protégé at the mic.

His protégé, who is Tommy’s spy, and also his best friend. And yet. And yet.

IN WAR, the blood god says, THE SPIES ARE THE FIRST TO DIE, and Techno tightens his grip on his crossbow.

“Technoblade, my old friend.” Techno can’t see the guy’s eyes from here, but he doesn’t doubt that Schlatt’s are gleaming, even with that very blatant lie. Techno has few friends, few enough to be counted on one hand, and Schlatt certainly isn’t on it. “Come up here, will you?”

AN OPPORTUNITY.

Techno goes.

* * *

And, well. Since they’ve asked so nicely for it.

* * *

“I’ll make it as colorful and as painless as possible,” Techno promises, because with fireworks that’s a promise he can keep. He loads his crossbow and breathes out slowly. The blood god reaches out with a clawed hand and guides his aim slightly up, steps them both back from the concrete box.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Schlatt and Quackity pale. They both look at him—no, higher. They’re looking up.

THE RESPONSIBILITY, the blood god says, LIES WITH YOU. REMEMBER: YOU ASKED FOR THIS.

Schlatt is scared. Quackity is praying.

Techno hasn’t performed any weapons tests with this crossbow, but he’s won wars and conquered realms. He’d enchanted this one with his own two hands. He has a very good idea of what it will do.

“Blood for the blood god,” he murmurs, feels the blood god’s laughter more than he hears it, and pulls the trigger.

* * *

Tommy is upset. Of course he is; Tubbo is his best friend on this server. He’d proclaimed it, mentioned it a thousand times over.

Techno remembers a warm summer day, a Championship crown, party games afterwards, quiet evenings going stargazing on a remote grassy hill.

“The only universal language is violence,” Techno says, and walks away first. Wilbur needs him, and his is the wish that lines up most with Techno’s own goals.

* * *

When they see Phil next, after everything is said and done, he blanches. He takes a step back, wings mantling, crossbow coming up.

Techno turns around to see what’s spooked Phil so badly, but there’s no creepers or baby zombies around.

“Techno.”

He glances back. Phil is looking back and forth between him and where the blood god stands. Wait—is he—

“Mate.” Phil audibly swallows, tries again. “Mate, who’s standing behind you?”

Phil can _see them_?

HELLO, the blood god says, and Phil drops his crossbow to clap his hands over his ears.

“Whoa, whoa, remember we _like_ Phil.” Techno pokes the blood god in the side automatically, who obligingly shuffles on their feet. They lower their head when he scowls, so that he can meet their eyes properly. “Don’t blow out his ears, that’s rude.”

The rest of him is still reeling over the fact that apparently they’re visible, now. Just like how they had been on that festival stage.

“Techno,” Phil says, voice shaky. “Is that—”

“Phil, meet the blood god.” He makes a wheezing noise; Techno moves on to allow him some dignity at least. “And blood god—well, you know Phil. Don’t scare him like that, geez.”

I APOLOGIZE, the blood god says, and whatever they must have moderated their pitch to—Techno can’t tell, they still sound the same to him—must be better for Phil, because he lowers his hands from his ears.

“Your mask looks like them,” Phil says after a long moment.

And, well, it’s embarrassing but true. Techno huffs a laugh. “Isn’t it great?”

“Techno, mate, the blood god doesn’t look like how you described them to me.”

“They changed forms not long after that one Championship tournament. You remember the one?”

“What?”

“You know.” Techno shrugs, keeps an eye on the blood god because even as his oldest friend, they _still_ haven’t explained that one to him. “After you and me and Wilbur and Tommy teamed up?”

“Really?” He can’t see Phil’s expression, after he scoops up his crossbow and starts playing with the string. It’s shaded beneath his hat, and the rest of his face is still blank—in shock, probably. _Techno_ ’s still in shock at the fact that Phil can just. See the blood god, now. “How did they change?”

“Well.” Techno has to think about it. “They used to be a lot more black and red and soulfire blue. Now it’s a brighter blue. Oh, and they grew wings.”

“Wings?” Phil looks up. “Techno. Uh, mate… are you sure about that one?”

“Yeah.” He squints, wonders what he’s missing. “Why?”

Slowly, carefully, Phil says: “…that’s not how they look to me.”

The blood god snorts into Techno’s stunned silence. WELL, OF COURSE. They inspect their claws because they’re a drama llama, then glance up at Techno and give him a smile. I AM THE BLOOD GOD. I LOOK DIFFERENTLY TO EVERYONE, PHILZA MINECRAFT.

“Wait, no, I’m curious now.” Techno squints again. “What do they look like to you, Phil?”

Silence. Techno looks over. Phil’s wrapped his wings around himself, clutching his crossbow to his chest. He stares at the blood god for a long moment—the blood god snorts, shakes their head, turns away—and then he looks to Techno.

This time, Techno recognizes the look in his eyes.

“They look like war and death,” Phil says, and manages to smile despite his fear. “I’m glad you have them as a friend, Techno.”

* * *

(Quackity forgets about the image at the festival. It’d been for a split second, sighted right before he’d died. It’d probably just been his imagination warping his fear into a hallucination. Everything is fine now. They have armor, they have weapons, they have leverage.

Except they don’t actually. Technoblade’s horses should be like any other horse, dumb animals that can be led around by the bridle, except this one—his prized horse, one fondly named Carl—is a _demon_. It bites, it kicks, and it _screams_.

Quackity dodges a hoof that comes dangerously close to caving in his skull. He’s lunging for the bridle, trying to drag it into a corner or at least over a hill or maybe get it to _shut up_ , but then Technoblade himself is barging out of his house. He doesn’t have his signature red cape but he’s in Netherite armor, sword gleaming in his hand, and after the Monday Massacres and the last time Technoblade had killed him, it’s a sight straight out of Quackity’s nightmares.

Fundy tries to talk him down. Tubbo tries to arrest him. Technoblade bares his teeth like the animal that he is and raises his sword.

Quackity raises his own. He’s fine. Everything is fine. They have equally strong armor and equally strong weapons, the best that New L’Manberg could raise after the devastation, and they are four against one. They’re going to win.

And then he sees _it_ again. It’s no longer hunched over Technoblade’s shoulder, guiding his hand; it’s standing straight, towering terrifyingly above. Quackity catches glimpses of jagged antlers and multiple pairs of burning wings before he needs to duck.

Fear rises in his throat, freezes the breath in his lungs. Ranboo, the new guy, is scrambling away. Fundy is on his knees, crying. Tubbo—

Tubbo stands firm, shaky hands raising his shield. “Technoblade, you are _under arrest_.”

“I am _retired_ ,” Technoblade snarls. “I came all the way out here for _exactly_ this reason: so that I don’t have to kill you. Do not make me. _Please_ do not make me.”

It’s the first _please_ that Quackity’s heard from the man, and it doesn’t make him as happy as he’d thought it would.

“You need to pay for your crimes!” someone yells, and belatedly, distantly, Quackity realizes it’s _him_. His knees are still weak, he feels like he’s about to throw up from the stress and fear, but—he needs to do this. He _needs_ to do this. For New L’Manberg. For himself.

“Alright,” Technoblade says, and sighs. He lowers his sword. “Alright.”

Then before Quackity can take advantage of the opening, he pulls out his axe. “Carl. You ready, big guy?”

The demon horse neighs—fuck, fuck, he’d forgotten the thing is still _here_ , it’s at least as tall as Quackity himself, how the hell is it so _quiet_ —and Technoblade smiles.

The figure standing behind him laughs, and Quackity can’t help himself: he drops his axe and shield and curls up, puts hands over ears, tries to escape the sound. It’s a shriek and a scream and a low-pitched monstrosity that rings in his skull.

“Remember,” he hears Technoblade saying to someone else when his ears stop bleeding. “I warned you.”

And then the axe swings down.)

* * *

After he’d sent the last group who’d tried packing, nobody comes to bother him in retirement.

“Is it that bad?” he wonders out loud. “To want to stay in retirement?”

NO, the blood god says from where they’re stoking the fire. They’re not even using the fire poker for it, even though Techno’s told them off multiple times for scattering ash all over his nice wooden floor. YOU HAVE MORE THAN EARNED YOUR PEACE.

“Well, yeah.” Techno resettles his fingers on his mug of tea, stares down into it. “But, like. I’m digging my heels in and—heh—Phil’d call it me enforcing my boundaries with _violence_. I just want to raise the bees and look after the turtles, man.”

AND THAT IS STILL A WORTHWHILE PURSUIT. The blood god rises and moves as silently as ever, but Techno can still see their shadow drift throughout the room as they pace another circuit. WE WARNED THEM. THEY DID NOT LISTEN. MORE FOOL THEY, FOR FAILING TO HEED IT.

“Yeah, that was kinda dumb.” Despite himself, Techno’s pretty darn amused. “They saw me spawn withers in L’Manberg for establishin’ a government right in front of me, and then they got pissed about it, and then came _all the way out here_ to track me down for, what, an arrest?”

OR AN ASSASSINATION, the blood god points out. THEY DID TRY TO TAKE YOU BY FORCE.

“In technically neutral and unclaimed land! International waters rules apply there, don’t they?”

IF THE SERVER ADMINS EVER BOTHERED ENFORCING SUCH RULES, YES. The blood god pauses at the cabin windows and peers through them, even though their immediate surroundings have been whited out by the blizzard.

Techno snorts and takes a sip of his tea. “I dunno if Dream would ever bother, man. He’s the one who’s been blowin’ up people’s houses on the server with TNT and then declared himself _Team Chaos_ during the revolution.”

‘TIS UNFORTUNATE. FOR THEM, AT LEAST.

He glances up. The blood god is giving him a grin, all wide smiles and excited fluttering of their wings. “What, you gonna be going after ‘em anyway?”

YOU ARE RETIRED, they very reasonably point out. YOU HAVE EARNED YOUR PEACE. I WILL SIMPLY ENSURE THAT YOU KEEP IT.

And here’s the thing. Techno knows that the blood god, as they stand now, has grown far beyond the need for his support. They radiate enough power to rival the ender dragon, and they’ve eaten enough souls throughout the years that they no longer whisper just to him, but also to whoever is nearby. Usually Techno gets the brunt of them chattering his ears off, reminding him to eat, asking him for blood.

But he’s seen Phil’s behavior change. The man he’d first befriended would never have raised a hand to Wilbur. And it hadn’t been Phil’s fault, Techno knows; Wilbur had asked for it, as the blood god had later confirmed. But Phil had still done it, and killing friends changes people.

The blood god’s very existence in their vicinity changes people, and it’s true that Techno wants to be able to retire in peace; but there are other reasons, too.

YOU WANT TO REST, the blood god repeats. YOU SHOULD BE ALLOWED TO. YOU _WILL_ BE ALLOWED TO.

And Techno is so very tired.

“Alright.” He drinks the rest of his tea, sets it down, rises to his feet and reaches for his traveling cloak. “But breaking Phil out of house arrest comes first.”

* * *

They break Phil out of house arrest. Techno almost asks if Phil wants to go somewhere else—he has enough secret bases scattered throughout the server that he can put Phil up somewhere without needing him to stay close by—but Phil claims a bedroom and slots himself into Techno’s routine without a ripple.

He’s a little wary of it, but far be it from him to chase off his second oldest friend. And Phil—

He’d asked Phil once, when he’d first joined the server: _Don’t you just want to go crazy?_

And Phil hadn’t denied it.

“I’m havin’ a peaceful retirement,” Techno says, and hands Phil a cup of tea.

“Mind if I set up a farm?”

“Not at all.” Where’re his maps? “Where were you thinkin’ of puttin’ it?”

Phil asks for a quiet location. Hidden, maybe in the mountains, maybe even farther north than where Techno’s cabin is. They find a place on the map and if it’s close to one of Techno’s war bunkers, where there’s redstone and obsidian and enough supplies to withstand a siege, then only the blood god has to know.

* * *

Phil sets up a farm but doesn’t tell him what it is. Techno stares down at the marker on his map, thinks about the blocks of obsidian and the flint and steel that Phil’d took with him, looks up. There is no expression readable off the blood god’s face, but their eyes are bright and when they meet his, they kneel.

I CAME INTO THIS WORLD AS AN IDEA, they say. YOU WERE THE ONE WHO GAVE ME POWER. YOU WERE THE ONE WHO GAVE ME LIFE. YOU PROMISED PHIL THE WORLD, BUT FOR YOU—I WOULD GIVE MUCH GREATER THINGS THAN THAT.

“I’m _retired_ ,” Techno says again, even though he feels like someone’s just carved something out from between his ribs.

Phil puts an arm around him, at first gingerly, then holds him tightly when Techno doesn’t shake him off. “You were right the first time around, mate. We’re just gonna finish what you started.”

He breathes in deeply and fills his lungs with air. Wilbur is dead; Tommy is exiled and doesn’t want to see him. The only people he has left are Phil and the blood god.

“Be careful, alright?” Techno twists around in Phil’s grip, and the man drops his arm at the slightest movement like he’d been prepared to do so, but he doesn’t move away even when Techno gets a hold of his cloak and pulls him in. “Don’t make me come out of retirement just to drag your skinny ass back home.”

“I will,” Phil promises. He reaches out and folds his hand over Techno’s, not contesting the grip, just keeping it there. “Don’t worry about me, mate, we’ll be fine.”

* * *

(They’d warned him, they’d _told him_ , and yet he hadn’t listened. Fuck, why hadn’t he? The Blade is plenty scary on his own, and Philza Minecraft with a sword and armored wings is terrifying, but this—

 _This_ is a true monster.

YOU. The voice reverberates and rings in his ears. There is a void where its eyes should be. The rest of it writhes, on fire, dripping blood. I KNOW YOU. YOU ARE THE ONE WHO CAUSED HIM PAIN.

Oh. Oh, _fuck_.

BECAUSE I AM GENEROUS, the eldritch horror says, and grins. There’s far too many teeth. I WILL GIVE YOU, AS THEY SAY, A ‘HEAD START.’)

**Author's Note:**

> In this fic, Dream does not give Techno the map to the woodland mansion (he got beat up pretty heavily in this version of the duel; it was a lot more one-sided than in canon/IRL). Techno doesn't need it anyway, since he successfully resisted arrest thanks to Carl wrecking the butcher army's shit and stayed home ~~instead of getting a 1/5 star Uber~~. 
> 
> The epigraph in the beginning author's notes is in the blood god's perspective, directed towards Techno.
> 
> Philza Minecraft has [a wither skeleton farm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H8GuKE4B-ic) on his hardcore world. In this fic, it's not Techno who grinds wither skeleton skulls - Phil just straight up remakes his farm on the server.
> 
> Most of my recent work can be found at my [root pseud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/findingkairos).
> 
> * * *
> 
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